Own the Wind(78)

I blinked.

Shy shook his head then spoke. “Babe, we may not be an old married couple but we got a lot of time in and, just pointin’ out, at first, I was into you so I paid attention. Then I was fallin’ in love with you so I paid more attention. Then I was in love with you, so I figure you get where it went from there. What I’m sayin is, I know you. I know you were keepin’ shit from me. I also know why. And last, I know that motherf*cker was f*ckin’ with your life and it was bad, because I sensed your mood and it was deteriorating. After the hog roast, Lan had a word with me and what he said sealed it, so I did what I’d been thinkin’ of doin’ for a while. Somethin’, I’ll add, that needed to be done.”

That was debatable, but I decided it best at that juncture not to debate it.

“You didn’t talk to me about it,” I told him.

“No, I didn’t,” he told me. “But I told you flat out what I’d do to that * if he didn’t leave you alone.”

“You didn’t even tell me after you’d done it,” I kept fighting my corner.

“No, I didn’t,” he repeated, and again said no more.

Crap.

“I’m not sure how I feel about that, Shy. This affects me, my work—”

Shy interrupted me, “He apologize?”

I was losing it, therefore my voice rose when I answered, “Yes, but that’s not the point.”

Shy crossed his arms on his chest and his voice went low when he replied, “Oh yeah, it is.”

“Shy—”

“This is not a surprise to you, Tabby,” he stated low. “It’s not a surprise but it’s a shock, and I know on the face of it that doesn’t make sense, but I also know you get me.”

I stared at him and kept my distance.

Shy didn’t miss much and he didn’t miss this. We were the kind of couple that got close. Even shuffling around the kitchen, we touched, brushed mouths, stood near when we were both doing something at the counter.

So he didn’t miss the unusual distance I was putting between us. He also didn’t approach.

What he did was order, “You take time to come to terms with this. You need me to help you, I’m there. Now, I’m gonna give you time alone to sort your head out. Not much, we’re sleepin’ together, we’re wakin’ up together, so now you got a sense of how much time you got. Use it wisely, honey. This is me, you knew that was what you were gonna get, you can’t expect me not to be me and I’m not gonna lose you over somethin’ as meaningless as that douchebag.”

On that, he gave me a long look and sauntered with his tall, loose-limbed biker grace to and through the door.

I sucked in breath.

Then I moved to the phone with only one person on my mind.

My dad’s rough voice came at me after one ring. “How’s my girl?”

“Dad, I need to talk to you.”

He didn’t answer immediately and when he did, his tone was quiet.

“You had dinner?”

“No.”

“Buyin’ my girl dinner. See you at Lincoln’s in twenty.”

“Okay,” I agreed.

Twenty minutes later, I walked into Lincoln’s Road House, a biker bar off a slip road on I-25 that doubled as a neighborhood watering hole. I didn’t know how they managed to mix bikers, booze, and often live music with the staunchly middle-class ’hood that surrounded the joint, but they did it. Likely because the food was good, the waitresses were friendly, and the music, when they had it, was great. Not to mention, Denver was eclectic and folks were used to rubbing shoulders with just about anyone. It was one of the reasons I loved my town.

I saw Dad sitting at the bar with a beer, and his eyes were on me the moment I came through the door. I moved through the bar, slid my bottom up on the stool beside him, and plopped my purse in front of me.

His eyes moved over my face then they moved to the bartender. He jerked up his chin and waved a hand toward the beer in front of him.

Nonverbal badass speak for, Get my daughter a beer.

The bartender clearly spoke badass because he got me a beer. I took a pull, put the bottle on the bar, and looked at Dad.

“Talk to me,” he demanded.

“Shy beat up a doctor at work who was giving me a hard time.”

Yep, that was what came straight out.

“No, he didn’t,” Dad stated, and I stared.

After staring awhile, I asked, “He didn’t?”

Dad shook his head. “Nope.” He lifted his beer, took a pull, put it back on the bar, and looked at me. “Shy, Roscoe, and Hop f*cked him up. Not just Shy.”

Oh my God!

Three of them?

I leaned in and hissed, “Are you serious?”

“Yep.”

I sat back and threw up my hands. “Already, it was bad. That’s totally overkill. No wonder he was totally messed up.”

“Not overkill, Tabby,” Dad told me and I glared at him.

“Dad, he’s a doctor. They do that shit. It wasn’t that big of a deal, and by the way, I was dealing.”

“No, they don’t do that shit. Not to my girl and, obviously, not to Shy’s old lady. An old lady doesn’t deal, darlin’, she breathes easy.”

I hated it when these bikers had good, albeit lunatic, answers for statements that had no good answers.